Walking in Wonder: Observations from the Field

There was a moment recently, while I was out walking, when everything went quiet.

No thoughts. No real estate worries. No back-to-school shopping lists or to-do’s.

Just a full-bodied sensory immersion.

I could hear the magpies chattering.
I saw the red berries lying low beneath the heavy, green bush.
I felt the dryness in my eyes from the smoke-filled air.
I could smell the dust kicked up by my own feet.

And, somewhere between miles one and two, I felt the intense, dry Montana heat melt the tension I’d been holding in my shoulders.

Walking outside has long nourished me.

Since I was a kid, I walked (and talked) as a daughter with my dad. My sisters and I used to walk the woods near our home in New England for hours, exploring new places and spaces for fort-making and picnics with our American Girl dolls.

I’ve walked alone and traversed trails with loved ones, friends, my canine companions, colleagues and even strangers.
I’ve walked as a runner.
I’ve walked as a mother, rocking my babies back and forth, back and forth.
I’ve walked barefoot and blistered across mountains and forests and beaches around the world.
And, I’ve spent the last seven years walking alongside my clients while they find their way.

My feet have carried me far and wide.

And now, I find myself walking across a landscape completely unfamiliar to me.

It’s not that I’ve forgotten the powerful medicine of walking or nature. Rather, I’m paying attention with renewed intention and curiosity—trusting my feet to find their way and remembering, in my own body, what I’ve known all along.

I’m remembering the less certain I am of the landscapes surrounding me, the more closely I pay attention. And, when I pay attention, the noise in my head quiets and I become very clear as to what I’m walking away from—and what I’m walking toward.

In that space, there is more room for wonder.

Wonder and control don’t coexist very well.

Wonder requires relinquishing certainty.
To not know what is around the bend.
To stop predicting.
To delight in the discoveries rather than control the adventure.
To notice without needing to explain.
To allow something to surprise us. Hello, bear!

Somehow, by paying closer attention, what was once unknown begins to feel more familiar.

I’ve noticed that walking helps orient my brain far better than Google Maps. Streets connect. I recognize landmarks. I can trust myself more and more to navigate this land without relying on the GPS.

And, as the streets give way to trails, I’m remembering another kind of orientation altogether.

Outside, walking as a stranger in a strange land, I remember I’m not separate from nature. I am nature. I belong here simply because I am here.

Nature doesn’t judge me—or my singing.

It doesn’t care about how fast or how far I go or if I’m wearing a Garmin or not.
The magpie doesn’t ask for my résumé.
The river doesn’t know whether I’m a good therapist, if the house offer was accepted, or whether I’ve figured out my new life in Montana yet.

In that sense of belonging, I can feel something in me soften.
And in that softness, I notice even more.

The patch of wildflowers somehow still bursting with color while patiently waiting for the next rain.
The tree roots that contort so beautifully to hold onto the mountainside.
The magnitude of the mountains.
How do the stars shine so brightly?

When I remember to pay attention, awe is everywhere.

And, as I notice what’s happening around me, I become more aware of what’s happening within me, too.

Step-by-step, my emotional and physical landscapes shift. The worries I carried onto the trail feel a little lighter. I feel my muscles expanding and contracting, my body settling into the familiar rhythm of right foot, left foot, right foot, left.

Somehow, I rarely finish a walk in exactly the same place I started.

In the solitude of these walks, the noise quiets enough for me to notice what matters most.

And lately, it’s been connection and community.

So, I joined a women’s hiking group.

Walking alongside these women, I’m reminded why I’ve spent the last seven years walking alongside clients, too.

There is something different about moving side-by-side rather than sitting face-to-face. Conversation seems to find its own rhythm. I feel less self-conscious and more comfortable in the environment, and I notice myself sharing more easily and freely. Silence feels less like something that needs to be filled. Our eyes can wander toward the trail ahead, the mountains in the distance, or whatever catches our attention along the way. And sometimes, as we walk and allow our attention to roam free, the things that feel hard to say come a little more easily. We aren’t just talking about moving through something. We are quite literally moving through it together.

I’m remembering how nourishing it can be to walk alongside others. And how restorative it can be to walk alone.

After walking outside, I notice myself feeling calmer, more energized, more alert, more motivated. And the academic in me loves knowing that what I experience on my walks isn’t just something I feel. There’s science beneath it, too.

The body is meant to move. And when I first began researching walk-and-talk therapy in 2017, I learned just how much can happen inside the body when we do. For instance, aerobic exercise can increase brain-derived neurotrophic factor, or BDNF—sometimes described as the “Miracle-Gro for the brain”—a protein involved in learning, memory and the brain’s ability to adapt and change.

Our muscles are communicating, too. Years ago, while reading Kelly McGonigal’s The Joy of Movement, I learned about “hope molecules”—signaling proteins called myokines that are released by our muscles during exercise and communicate with other parts of the body, including the brain. Researchers are studying how this muscle-brain communication may influence inflammation, brain health, mood, and our resilience to stress.

The idea that every step we take creates a conversation between body and brain—and that movement itself can support our capacity for resilience—is fascinating to me. Who couldn’t use a bit more hope?

And let’s not forget about the magic that happens when we take our movement outside. Research suggests that time in natural environments can support emotional well-being and aspects of our attention. I experience that science in much simpler terms: the noise quiets. Tension melts. My attention widens. I feel more present—with the magpies, the wildflowers, my breath, my feet, and even myself.

The science gives language to what I’ve experienced for years. But walking in this new landscape has reminded me why I believe so deeply that some things need to be experienced, not simply understood.

I still don’t know exactly where this new trail leads.

Maybe I don’t need to.

For now, I’ll continue to trust my feet, pay attention to what’s around the bend, and keep walking in wonder.